The Heirloom Garden, page 9
“Got what?” I ask, returning the photos to the nightstand.
“You know how you always decorate my cake in trillium? Well, next time we make Daddy’s birthday cake it should be decorated in peach roses. I mean, you invented them for him. And they will live forever, right?”
She extends a hand and helps me off the bed. “Right!” I say.
* * *
The light grows on the trillium, turning their showy white blooms into spring’s wedding dress, and I know I must hurry. I stand and wipe my backside, grab the cake off the bench and unwrap it.
I pull my nearly forgotten bounty from my pocket.
I place a birthday candle in the middle of the cake and light it with a match. I shut my eyes and can hear your happy giggles. I make a wish—one I know will never come true—and blow. I set the cake in the midst of the trillium, barely able to distinguish it from the flowers.
“Happy birthday, my angel,” I say. “Give your daddy a kiss for me. I love you.”
PART FOUR
IRIS
“Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest.”
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
ABBY
MAY 2003
The conference room is dappled with light.
Whitmore Paints sits in a 1970s office building between a secondary road just off the highway and a small interior lake that is fed by a river from Lake Michigan. However, there is nothing retro or cool about this ’70s design: it has none of the midcentury charm that has become so hip of late nor any of that funky Brady Bunch vibe. It’s more like my old grade school: linoleum tile, harvest-gold carpet, claustrophobic drop ceiling tiles, fluorescent lighting and windows hung with thick brown curtains and dusty, dented blinds.
“Good morning!” I say. “Morning, Phil. Good morning, Mr. Whitmore.”
When I enter, the men are clustered in a corner with their company coffee cups laughing and talking about their golf games. Two women—one older, one younger—are seated at opposite ends of the table, laptops open in front of them.
“Good morning, Abby,” Mr. Whitmore says.
I wait for a question to be directed toward me: How was your weekend, Abby? Are you getting settled? How’s your daughter doing? Let me give you some ideas on what to do in Grand Haven, okay?
None come.
In many ways this feels like my grade-and high-school days. The boisterous boys clustered in a corner fluffing their feathers while the girls sit meekly at their desks ready to get to work. I take a seat and nod at the two assistants.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Tammy asks.
“No, thank you,” I say. “One more cup, and I’ll be as jittery as a June bug.” Tammy smiles. “My grandma used to say that. Always stuck with me.” I stop. “And, by the way, I can get my own coffee. You never need to do that.”
Tammy’s face flushes. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I look back at my coworkers.
No, this reminds me of college and graduate school.
I was often the only woman in some of my engineering classes. “Are you in the right class?” I was often asked by the men. “Education building is just down from here.”
I open my laptop, and my reflection returns a dumbfounded gaze.
I am not most men’s fantasy, the stereotypical American beauty. I am what many might call “handsome,” or even “patrician.” My features are strong, regal, like my grandmother and grandfather, but I’ve intentionally hardened my look over the years in order to be taken seriously. The glasses, the haircut, the pantsuits.
I look around as the men gather at the conference table.
And yet, I’m still a unicorn. I’m still the only female engineer at the table.
“Let’s get this meeting started,” Mr. Whitmore begins in a deep voice similar to Donald Sutherland’s.
The meeting always starts with the business director, a red-faced man with a buzz cut and zero personality. In my first few weeks he has yet to look at me, much less address me.
As he drones on, my eyes return to the dappled light in the room.
Lily used to have one of those night-lights in her bedroom that spun stars on the ceiling and around all the walls. I would lie in bed with her, and we would both watch the show wide-eyed as if we were front and center for the northern lights. I pulled it back out when Cory was overseas. Neither of us could sleep, and Lily would constantly ask, “Where’s Daddy?” I would point up at the stars and tell her, “He’s looking at the same stars we are,” and she would finally fall asleep.
The conference room is glass on three sides, and the sunlight’s reflection off the water as well as the windshields of passing cars gives the dull room a magical air.
“Abby?”
My heart leaps. Busted.
“Here!” I say, raising my hand as if I was in school, trying to cover with a joke. No one laughs.
“Your paints are holding up well in our tests so far,” Mr. Whitmore says, shuffling through a pile of papers. “And marketing is reporting that consumers are reacting very positively to your new color line. But we have a few questions regarding that. Pete?”
I take a breath to steel myself.
Pete is head of marketing. He’s a former Caltech whiz kid whose family, I hear, owns a few hundred acres of prime beachfront property that they want to develop although they’ve been thwarted numerous times so far by conservancy groups and the state. Pete is all slick hair and vacation tan, booming voice and capped teeth. He oozes confidence. He literally swaggers in his chair. He asked me in my interview if I planned to have more children. The room spun when he asked me that, but I kept my mouth shut and shook my head.
Why didn’t I report him? I think. Oh, yeah. I needed this job. I needed a stable home. These are the decisions women face every day. Ethics vs. career. And when we fight back, we are called liars.
“I’m just not jibing with some of your proposed colors and names,” Pete says. “What is this...this—” Pete stops and shuffles through his papers. He looks up, a virtual sneer planted on his face “—this Iris color. Does anyone know what color a Summer Iris is? I mean, men own boats. They won’t paint it Iris, Abby.” He looks through his papers again and laughs. “Or Pink Peony?” He looks around the table. “I mean, c’mon. Bob, would you buy Pink Peony? Frank, I can’t really see you taking your Purple Phlox boat out for a ride with the boys and a few beers, can you?”
The men chuckle and nod.
I nod at Pete as if he’s just made the most valid point in the world. “I understand your concerns,” I start. “But the National Women Boaters Association reports that nearly a quarter of all boat owners are now women. Moreover, 85 percent of women make the purchasing decisions for their families.”
“Not mine,” Pete says with a laugh.
I wait for the group to self-correct Pete, but none of the men do. They nod and chuckle and shuffle their papers. I narrow my eyes and smile. If I don’t smile, the men will think I’m a bitch, and I’ll get nowhere here.
“Must explain the way you dress then, Pete,” I say.
Every man’s head shoots up, and then Mr. Whitmore bursts out in laughter.
“I was wondering about that tie myself,” he says.
Pete’s face turns as red as the convertibles on his cheap, midlife crisis of a tie, and I can literally see steam shooting forth from his ears like in a cartoon.
“Let’s look at the way Benjamin Moore or Sherwin-Williams markets their paints today,” I continue. “Even car companies. Or the influence that HGTV has had on the way consumers consider color. Nothing is red or white or yellow anymore. White is Chantilly Lace or Swiss Coffee. Red is Caliente. It sets a mood, a feeling, and that’s what I’m trying to do with these colors. That’s what we need to do with these colors. I guarantee you, men’s names may be on the title for the majority of pleasure boats but it’s the women who put their signatures all over the boat’s interior and exterior. And we’re not just marketing a new color line. We’re inventing a new market.”
A few of the men nod. “But you still haven’t answered my question. What color is an iris?”
“What color is a rainbow, Pete?”
“What does that mean?”
I look at the light and then at Pete. “Well, let me explain it like I do to my daughter, Pete.”
A few of the men catcall and rib Pete, but I stop them. “I mean that in a complimentary way, actually, because my daughter is one of the brightest humans on this planet.” I stop. “I’m probably one of the few engineers to study Greek mythology in college, but I did because it fascinated me. The flower gets its name from the ancient Greek goddess, Iris, the Messenger of Love. Greeks believed she used the rainbow as a bridge between heaven and earth and that the rainbow was actually her flowing, multicolored robes and the many-colored iris were the flowing veil. Greek men often planted an iris on the graves of women as a tribute to Iris and to mark where she could find the women in order to take their souls to heaven. The flower was named in honor of her and to bring favor on the earth.” I stop. Pete’s eyes are wide.
“And?” Pete asks in a bluster.
“I think if we put a beautiful narrative with the paints, it will entice buyers,” I say. “Iris would be a paint color that symbolizes love. Iris bloom in many colors—purple, blue, yellow, white, pink, red, chartreuse, brown and black. For instance, purple iris symbolize royalty. Blue is symbolic of hope and faith. Yellow symbolizes passion. White expresses purity. This could be part of a summer line of flower-inspired colors. I think women would eat this up.” I stop. “And I think men would, too.”
Pete opens his mouth to say something, by his expression I assume something demeaning or derogatory, but Mr. Whitmore cuts him off. “Outstanding work, Abby. You are truly an engineer in the brain but an artist at heart.” He smiles. “And likely a darn good gardener, too, I’m guessing.”
“Thank you,” I say.
After the meeting wraps up, Tammy sidles up next to me after the room has cleared and says, “You were amazing. You handled Pete really well.”
“Thanks,” I say, before lowering my voice. “I was about to tell him he should paint his boat Iris Yellow because I’m sure his wife could use all the help she can get.”
Tammy lets out a huge laugh that echoes through the now-empty conference room, before clamping a hand over it. “It’s nice to have you on board,” she says.
“I appreciate that,” I say. “And good reference for here—on board.”
Tammy smiles and leaves me alone in the room. I gather my laptop, calendar and papers. The light plays across the room, and I stop and watch it for a second.
Always claim your light, Abby, I say to myself.
“Abby, Iris on line two.”
Tammy’s voice booms through the intercom, filling the room.
Ha-ha, I think. Good joke, Tammy.
“Abby, Iris on line two.”
I walk over and pick up the conference room phone.
“Good one, Tammy,” I say. “Very clever.”
“What?” she asks. “No. No. There’s really a woman named Iris calling for you on line two.”
“Iris?” I ask. “I don’t know an Iris. Are you sure it’s for me?”
“I’m sure,” Tammy says.
I click off and pick up the call.
“This is Abby Peterson,” I say.
“This is Iris... Iris Maynard.” It’s a quavering voice that sounds as if it belongs to an older woman.
“Yes?” I prompt.
“It’s your neighbor,” she says. “You’re renting your house from me.”
“Oh,” I stumble. “I’m so sorry. Is something wrong? Did you not receive our first and last month’s payment?”
I can hear her breathing.
“No,” she says. “Your husband and daughter were just with me.”
“Is something wrong?” I ask again, hearing my voice escalate in panic.
“No,” she says. “They’re okay.” She stops. “I mean, physically.” She stops again. She is breathing heavily on the other end. “Well, they’re not okay. I think we should talk. Do you have a few moments?”
“I’m about to head into another meeting,” I say. “Why don’t I come over after work? I can call you when I’m on the way.”
“I don’t really... I don’t really have people in my house,” Iris says. “Until today.” There is a long, uncomfortable silence. “Fine,” Iris finally says. “Call me on your way home. Here’s my number.” Silence again. “I’d prefer if you didn’t stay too long, though.”
“All right,” I say, writing down her number. Iris hangs up without warning, and I immediately call Cory.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“I have something to tell you,” he says. “Promise you won’t get mad.”
My head grows dizzy as I listen to Cory.
“You lied to me, Cory! You lied!”
My voice is echoing through the conference room. Two coworkers stop at the door, their bodies still, their coffee cups frozen in midair, mouths open, watching me. I rush over and shut the door.
“You promised me you would go to therapy! You promised me! You’re putting Lily in danger. I can’t do this anymore, Cory. You need help. I can’t even go to work without worrying what might happen.” I stop. “If you don’t call to see someone by the time I get home tonight, then—” I stop again “—then we’re going to have to make some hard decisions.”
Cory is heaving on the end of the phone. “I know, I know,” he says. “I will. I will.”
When I hang up, I take a seat and watch the light dance across the room.
I look out the window, and a boat is being launched from our dock. As it motors into the lake, mini-rainbows are formed in the spray from the boat’s mist.
“Take care of my little girl, Iris,” I say to the rainbow, unsure if I’m referring to the old woman or the Greek goddess.
IRIS
MAY 2003
“Hello, ladies. My namesakes sure look lovely this morning.”
I am kneeling on my cushy gardener’s pad, making small talk with my flowers. One end of the garden that runs the entire length of my front yard is filled with iris of every color and variety. I grab a beautiful bearded iris.
This particular iris is called “Stairway to Heaven,” and it seems perfectly named. Its flower is white and its beard a showy violet blue. In the sunlight the flower’s petals do resemble a heavenly staircase leading through the sky and clouds to heaven. I stare at the flower and then look into the spring sky.
“Is there such a staircase?” I ask the flower. “Is there a heaven? Is my family waiting?”
The flower’s petals shimmer in the wind, softly floating up, down and sideways.
“That’s rather noncommittal,” I say to the iris.
There are two types of iris: bearded and beardless. Bearded iris look, of course, as if they have a tiny beard. The “falls,” the flower’s drooping lower petals, are actually fuzzy. I stop and feel my chin.
“No wonder I’m named after you,” I say with a laugh, giving the stem a shake.
This time of year in Michigan, there is always a gardener’s battle between their favorite flower: tulip versus iris. In western Michigan, especially, tulips typically prevail due to the overwhelming Dutch ancestry present here. Holland, a resort town just south of Grand Haven, is famed for its Dutch history, its windmills and its spring Tulip Festival when thousands of tulips are in bloom. It’s quite spectacular, and a Technicolor reminder that winter is over and spring has finally arrived. I adore tulips, and I have them circling the base of many of my trees, just like my mom and grandma used to do. They remind me of little, jewel-toned lollipops.
But to me, there is just something regal about an iris. They are not only colorful and beautiful but also strong and powerful. Most of my iris are tall, many towering a few feet into the air, and their size and colorful personalities literally force one to take notice.
Like children, I think.
My Mary had fanciful names for the iris just as she did her dolls. The white ones were Cinderella, the purple were named Violet, the yellow were called Tweety after the cartoon bird she so loved.
I remove my glove and dig my hand right into the wet earth. It’s still cold below the surface. My hand hits a root and I admire its unique beauty, too. Iris reproduce via swollen roots, with bearded iris producing a rhizome that looks like a long potato.
I consider my iris garden to be a microcosm of the world. It is filled with every color, each more beautiful and more perfect than the other. I’ve always been most taken by the chocolate and black iris, moodier colors that seem to capture the flower’s soul and spirit. My double chocolate bearded iris are the color of burnished leather, almost cordovan, with deeper chocolate falls and copper highlights. It’s a stunner. And my deep black bearded iris is simply breathtaking.
“You know you’re gorgeous, don’t you, girl?” I ask it.
The flower looks like onyx in the sunlight. Its flowers and falls are ruffled like a wedding dress, and it is undeniably sexy, a Georgia O’Keeffe painting come to life.
I stand with some effort, my knees popping and my lower back trying to go AWOL on the rest of my body, and stop midstoop. I look over my iris. My heart races in excitement and then falls in sadness.
“Which of you ladies wants to come inside and brighten my home?” I ask.
My grandma’s gardens were all designated as cutting gardens. Her flowers were meant to beautify not only her garden but also her home. She filled her rooms with flowers every week, every month, every season, from the first daffodils to the final mums. Even in winter my grandma’s home was filled with greenery: pine and holly branches tucked on the mantel and into window boxes. I have her Christmas cactus, which I have babied for decades and which still blooms every holiday season. I would estimate that cactus to be nearly fifty years old now. Gardeners would laugh in my face if I told them that, but it’s true.
